


like fire from a busted gun

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Classroom Sex, Community: kissbingo, Desk Sex, F/M, First Time, Plot What Plot, Porn Battle, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra/Aria for the prompts <em>classroom</em>, <em>explanation</em>, <em>prevent</em>, <em>silence</em>. Written before 1.07. I'm also totally counting this for the 'biting' square on my kissbingo card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like fire from a busted gun

Aria gasps when his fingertips accidentally slip beneath the fabric of her underwear, over the curve of her ass, and he doesn't have a chance to move his hand to a slightly less inappropriate location before she props herself up higher and he _has_ to keep his hold on her so she won't fall down.

It wouldn't be so disconcerting if his knuckles didn't brush the surface of his _desk_ at the same time half his fingertips dig into her ass.

It's — he needs a moment to catch up with — with his intentions here. To collect himself, because, okay: talking. That was the entire reason he asked her to come see him after class. _Is_ the entire reason. That's still why she's here — that's why he told her to drop by, even if they got sidetracked. And that still is the point, and could even be what happens if he can just take a deep breath and a step back. As many steps back as necessary. If he takes enough, he could hide behind a desk, and then the situation would effectively go from ridiculously charged to ridiculous, and it would be easier not to do anything stupid.

He can feel Aria's shoe dancing precariously on her foot, tapping the side of his knee right under the place her other leg's wrapped loose around his thigh, like she wants to keep him in place without coming off as pushy or possessive. He's not sure she's even aware of why she's doing that, or if it's him who's reading too much into it. Her shoe stays on, but she doesn't seem to be paying any attention to it: she's still kissing him, hot and eager and breathless, and only stops to take her hand off his neck and walk her fingers down his chest, anticipation clear in her eyes.

"I know this wasn't — " Aria begins, tripping over the words as she cups his quickly hardening dick over his pants, "I know you don't — want — I know we're not together anymore, I do, and I respect that decision, even if it wouldn't have been my choice I do, just — please. Please don't pull away. Just this once. Please."

"I — I can't," he says, kissing his way from her mouth to her ear, letting his teeth graze her jaw lightly and trying not to bite, though he has a feeling she wouldn't mind. She's about to reiterate that she knows and understands, in that painfully guilt-ridden voice he really doesn't want to hear, so he doesn't let her finish the thought before he whispers in a self-mocking tone, trying to make light of it, "I don't think I can pull away at this point."

Aria makes this relieved sound, a puff of air louder and more concise than her usual breathing. "I know you want me to be disappointed," she says, narrowing her eyes at him with that air of objective composure she never loses when it comes to all the rationally unsound choices she's made for him, "but disappointment isn't even on my radar right now."

It's true that he sort of — wishes she were less blasé about all this, and then again not entirely, but she knows that, knows well enough how thoroughly he's capable of contradicting himself with regards to her. It's not as immediately important to address as Aria's hand moving on his dick, rubbing just hard enough so he'll feel it clearly through two layers of clothing.

"Fuck," he groans, burying his face in her shoulder. He bares his teeth this time, allowing himself to nip softly at skin.There's a spot under her jaw that makes her moan if he sinks his teeth in a little — it's so unfair that she's this perfect for him. "What do you — what do you want to do?"

"I have — " She reaches back for her purse blindly and slips a condom into his back pocket, which — okay, clear enough. "I'm not — I mean, you don't have to worry. Much. I've done this before. Just haven't done _that_." She eyes the thumb she's hooked into the side belt loop of his jeans. "Not that. Never really got a chance to deal with that. And I don't think it'd be a good idea to screw it up right now." She takes a deep breath and adds, quieter, "Maybe some other time."

"Right," he says, "wow."

"Is that a good wow or a bad wow?" Her voice is steady, and she's smiling.

"Surprised wow," he says, "overwhelmed. I think," and leans in to kiss her. "And I guess a little — a little like I'm not sure I like the thought of you of you carrying those around," he says, because — it's practical and smart, and he does expect that from her, but she's _sixteen_, and also if he'd had to retrieve his wallet he would have — okay, no, he wouldn't have used the interruption to inject any sense into the situation, but he likes to think it could have happened. It wouldn't be a good sign if he didn't trust himself to make a right choice given the opportunity.

He hears a zipper go down — his — and Aria whimpers before she's even done with it. She — she really, really wants this, fuck.

"Iceland," she mutters by way of explanation. It's nothing short of unnerving, because it could mean anything. It could mean — it most likely means she has more experience than he's made himself believe as an extra reason to back off and not take any firsts away from her, except the thought is sprinkled with these stupid sparks of _jealousy_ that shouldn't be there, that he doesn't _want_ to be there.

It's not his place. It's over. It has to be. The only thing this changes is the knowledge that they can't be left alone in private, because clearly having painstakingly broken up is not enough for either of them to keep their hands off each other.

"Iceland made a lot of things seem way less embarrassing," she elaborates, and her hips buck into her forearm, and she breaks away a little, arm reaching back to prop her up on the desk and shift her weight off his arms. "Less embarrassing than — than they would have been to get used to here." And then she pops the button of his jeans open with a little groan that makes him feel horrible for trying to step away from this.

She's making these beautiful, amazingly hot little noises just touching him, like she can barely handle getting to do that, and his brain is on overdrive, trying to focus on anything other than Aria sighing and her lips pressed together and the way she's tracing the outline of his cock through his boxers, tentative, with this look of curiosity in her eyes.

All of a sudden, he can see no reason why he shouldn't focus on her. If they're doing this — and he's not going to delude himself about that, not after he didn't force his way out any earlier, when stopping would have been easier and seemed much more important on a priority scale, if not enough to outshine kissing Aria when she pulled him in — if they're doing this, it's not just for her. It's obviously not just for her. He's wanted her for as long as she's wanted him, and any time now he's going to stop watching her mouth. She's already gone from biting her lip to hinting at a smile to pouting, and now she's tilting her head to the side and beginning to smirk.

"You're staring."

"I am."

She laughs silently through her nose, just a puff of air, and it's downright adorable. "Are you going to tell me I'm beautiful and wasted on a decrepit old man like you?" she asks, mocking, and he blinks out of his trance.

He wasn't going to say anything of the sort, but if she wants to make jokes about it, two can play that game. Flatly, he echoes, "Yes. You're beautiful and wasted on an old man like me. Not sure I'd say decrepit, though."

"You're right; that wouldn't convey the gravity of your advanced age," she says, grinning, and closes her eyes to steal a quick kiss. He lets his hands travel upwards under her dress, to her waist. Maybe it's because it's not really necessary, because it's on purpose, or maybe it's just the different context, but it feels much more personal, more charged to hold her bare waist than touching her ass did a moment ago.

She mirrors him, sneaking a hand under his shirt, and her nails dig into flesh, low enough that the next step involves fingertips dipping under elastic.

"Wait," he says, and she freezes.

"What?" she says. "You don't — "

He chuckles, and smiles at her. "It's fine. I just — I want to do something first. If you don't mind."

It's a little painful to stand there while she looks at him for reassurance, but he waits until she settles down and says, "Okay," before disentangling their limbs and walking around the desk until he can feel the arms of his chair low on his thighs when he moves. She's followed him with her eyes, so, when he tells her to turn around, she does so in a second, bending her knees over the desk and stretching them again over the side he's facing. "What now?"

"Now," he echoes, incredulous, though he has no answer for that question — not one he's all that comfortable saying out loud. He steps between her legs instead, cupping her jaw and tilting her head back. He licks the sheen of sweat visible over the neck of her dress, up her throat, and doesn't fight when her lips find his, wet and open and a little aggressive, her hand keeping a hard grip on his shoulder.

She pulls him closer until they're flush against each other, her ass barely even lying on the desk at this point. Her hips buck irregularly, seeking contact. They're still mostly dressed, but he has most of her dress bundled in his hands, and, when she rubs up against his dick, once and again, mouth falling open, two sounds pop up under her light panting: a gasp, from him, throat strained and a little dry, and the dull drag of a chair sliding a few inches off on the hard floor, caused by Aria flinging her foot across the armrest.

He makes an effort to set her down safely and sits down. The chair's askew, facing the far inside corner of the room, and he fixes it to its proper place out of habit, lining its legs up perpendicularly to the floor tiles. He doesn't realize he's doing it until it's done, and by then Aria's gazing at him with an expression halfway between shock and adoration.

He's suddenly hyperaware of the implications: he has a _student_ sitting, disheveled and expectant, on his fucking _desk_ at _school_, with her feet at his sides, heels on the armrests now she can reach them — a student on his desk with her legs spread for him and her underwear visibly soaked, sticking snugly to her.

The way his stomach tightens at that realization shouldn't be nearly as pleasant as it is.

"Shit," she hisses, and the silence that follows highlights the dull thud of her shoes falling to the floor at both sides of the chair, the rustle of the different fabrics her dress is made out of, even the fluffy slide of her underwear down her leg. Then she says, low as a whisper, "Would you freak out if I told you — if I said I find it really hot that we're doing this here?"

"Yes," he says instantly, too loud, looking up. Because — it does, a little bit. It's natural. It's just not for the reasons Aria's eyes are widening. "I mean," he amends, facing her with intent, "not because — not because you're alone there, it wouldn't."

Aria nods after a moment, blinking and slowly giving up on searching his face for signs that she's screwed up. Eventually she lets herself grin a little, almost shy, shiny pink peeking out between her teeth. "Good."

"It's my fault, anyway," he says. It is, and she should know he doesn't blame her.

"I definitely didn't tell you to sit there," she mumbles, and he gives her a fond smirk before ducking his head to kiss her knee, wetting his lips before he trails down her inner thigh, higher, pausing every few moments to suck lightly on skin, more and more subtly as he gets to warmer, softer spots. "Oh, god," she says, and she sounds surprised, like she's only now realizing where this is going.

"You okay?"

"_Yeah_," she says, and slings her other knee over his shoulder. "Come on."

It makes him feel better somehow, hearing her say that. He likes that she wants him to do this, that she's not afraid or embarrassed to admit it. She has things she's not comfortable saying or doing and things she is, and that's — that's normal, like anybody else, and that does make him feel better, less like there's this huge gap between them he has no right to fill and more like they're on the same page.

He nearly loses it at the first hint of her smell, and he must make some kind of noise, because her legs stretch even further apart for him. Teasing her at this point is like teasing himself, in that way where he's just not able to do it, and she gasps when he uses his fingers to hold her open and licks a firm path up to her clit, spreading wetness.

She clutches the back of his collar, her grasp careful at first, just keeping its place, and tightening as he works her up. She starts panting at the same time her fingers take on a sort of intense unsteadiness, like she's trying not to pull him closer, so he increases the urgency, the purposefulness of his tongue on her, drawing tighter circles around her clit, flicking over it more often and harder until he can't help zeroing in and sucking lightly on it.

She pulls back abruptly, with a loud gasp, and he tries to follow until her fingers tug at his collar.

"What's wrong?" he says, mouthing soothingly at her thigh. It's mostly for his own benefit — he wants to get his mouth back on her so badly his lips are tingling, and the interruption has made him painfully aware of how hard he is, of the fact that his cock is leaking into his boxers and about as desperate for _something_ as his mouth is right now.

"Nothing," Aria says, choking back a moan. "I just don't want to — you know — yet."

He licks his lips and glances up, not without effort. "It doesn't have to be just once," he points out, as matter-of-fact as he can. He's not subestimating her on this.

"Yeah, I — I just — I like being — " Her voice falters a little, and she laughs, abashed, like it helps her shake off the weight of what she's trying to say. She tries again anyway, only meeting his gaze intermittently this time, and quieter. "I like being — nearly there. I like that better than kind of starting over. I like that edge." She laughs again, an amused sigh, and says, "I want to keep that desperate edge for a while, right now. Don't," she adds as he moves to stand, "don't get up. Stay there."

She shifts forward, using the arms of his chair to stay upright, and climbs onto his lap. The first thing she does is kiss him eagerly, stealing her own taste from his mouth, and then she leans back against the desk, giving him room to yank his pants down. He barely has time to slip on a condom before she's straddling him again and slowly, so slowly sinking down on his cock. He can see every breath she takes in the heaving of her chest, every gleam of sweat on her neck, her knees, her forehead. If he pays attention, he can almost hear her heart beat. It's taking all he has to let her get used to it, let her set the pace.

"I want to take your shirt off so bad," she says after a long silence, straining to laugh as she lifts her hips a fraction.

It's kind of overwhelming when she starts moving in earnest all of a sudden, not really intensifying anything so much as just setting it to intense from the get-go. She ducks her head into his neck, printing a path of distracted kisses on his skin. It's been building for her more than it has for him, so it's not that surprising, but he waits a few seconds before he meets the motion of her hips, to make sure she's not just testing it out but actually wants to keep up this rhythm.

Her breathing is hot and loud and heavy, and it quickly takes on new shapes, long moans and broken cries, and she mutters, "Maybe — oh, god — maybe I should've — fuck — should've let you make me come first," before her mouth stills on his collarbone, nose nudging his shirt aside, and she clenches around him, over and over. Her hips keep moving, irregular now, but enough that he's completely done for not a minute after she is.

Talking is pretty much a lost cause after that, even more so than it was to begin with. All she really says before turning to leave is, "Thanks for the — talk," smiling with amusement and a certain shyness, but not even attempting to push it, which is probably for the better — he doesn't know what he'd say to her if she tried to convince him to give up on the staying apart thing, but he knows he'd have to undo it as soon as reality caught up with him. He's just not sure what the point of breaking up _was_ if it being apart means this is what happens when they're left alone together for two minutes.

He sits on the edge of the desk and covers his face with his hands, which smell so much like her he just wants to lick them, or run after her.

He does neither, but he's starting to think there isn't actually a right and a wrong thing to do.


End file.
